Happy Accidents
by Hummingbird1759
Summary: The Tumblr 30 day OTP challenge, featuring MollCroft. Chapters will not be sequential.
1. Holding Hands

_A/N: Real life has been stressing me out lately, but my pain is your gain, because I deal with stress by writing Molly and Mycroft being cute. I give you the Tumblr OTP Challenge, now featuring MollCroft! These chapters will not be in the same universe as each other (or anything else I've written), so feel free to jump around. I don't own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Conan Doyle do. As always, I love reviews and the people who post them._

* * *

The first time it happened, it was just for show. They'd been sitting in the coffee shop near Bart's when a pack of women walked in and Molly immediately ducked her head. Mycroft took a moment to study them. _(Acute physicians at Bart's, all in their late twenties, designer handbags, wearing stilettos despite the fact that they are on their feet all day, spend at least twenty minutes each morning on makeup, frequent manicures. Pressuring their husbands to make more money. Consider themselves the "Queen Bees" of the hospital.)_ From the expression on Molly's face, Mycroft deduced that when they deigned to speak to her, their words were not kind.

The diplomat decided that if anyone deserved a moment of triumph, it was the woman who helped to save his brother's life. When the Queen Bees looked over at Molly, he gently reached across the table and took her hand, running his thumb over her dainty wrist. The pathologist blushed and smiled at him, and he smiled back. The Queen Bees stared over at Molly and her very posh "date" for a moment, then began whispering to each other in jealous tones.

Glancing at his watch, he told Molly he hoped they could do this again, and then kissed her hand before departing. As he stepped into his car, he wasn't sure which was the most interesting fact about holding Molly's hand: that her pulse elevated, or that his did.


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

"Come along, Molly," Mycroft grumbled as a drunk and giggling Molly Hooper clumsily skipped down the street.

Molly chanted the government official's name in a singsong voice as she staggered along. Mycroft knew she'd had more than a few too many when she texted him at two in the morning, but until he laid eyes on her, he hadn't known just how dire the situation was. _(I suppose it's a good job she texted me instead of Jim Moriarty's old number, but really, what can she have been thinking?)_ He'd known in an instant that she could not be left alone and had tried vainly to get her into a cab. Molly, for her part, had jumped in every puddle in sight, seemingly hellbent on re-enacting a scene from _Singin' In the Rain_.

"Oh for God's sake!" Mycroft said through gritted teeth. _(This is worse than Sherlock in his pirate costume!)_ "Molly Elizabeth Hooper, come _here!_"

Giggling and drenched, Molly paused, looked up at Mycroft with plaintive eyes and said, "I'll come if you hold my hand."

The diplomat sighed heavily and tried not to read what was written on Molly's face. "All right," he groaned, and took her hand.

Molly suddenly grew quiet and her pace slowed. Mycroft kept a gentle but firm grip on Molly with one hand and used his other hand to tap out a message to his PA.

"I ought to get you home, Molly. I should hate for you to catch cold."

Wobbly, the pathologist looked up at him and slurred, "You wanna get me home… so we can shaaag?"

For the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes was caught off guard. "Pardon?"

"Izzn 'at why men take drunk girlsss home?"

The diplomat wrinkled his nose in disgust. "_Some_ men do, but _I_ don't." He gazed down at Molly and added, "It's not that I don't find you…"

"Pretty?" Molly supplied with a giggle.

Mycroft chose his words carefully. "You are… attractive… when you are _sober_, my dear. Now, the car will be here soon, and I shall see to it that you get home safely – and go to bed alone."

"Ur s' cool, Mycroff," she said, still badly slurring her speech. She wrapped her arms around Mycroft's waist and clumsily stepped forward. Her head nestled in just under his chin and she threw most of her weight on to him. Awkwardly, the diplomat draped one arm over her shoulders. Molly made a sound that resembled purring and buried her face into Mycroft's overcoat.

"Mmm… ur warmmm," she murmured.

Mycroft contemplated the little bundle in his arms. This was rather more pleasant than he expected, and though she was acting like a child tonight, she was still one of the more capable people he knew. _(And I do find her attractive. God help me.)_ Tomorrow, she'd wake up with a splitting headache and no memory of anything, especially this moment, he told himself. But if there was one thing the elder Holmes did not care about, it was being remembered. _(If nobody knows of it, it can't be used against me.)_ He gently rested his cheek on top of her head and she snuggled closer.

Not long after, the car arrived and Mycroft guided Molly in, and then led her out when she reached her flat. After ensuring that she was safely inside, the car took him home. He didn't give Molly any further thought until his mobile vibrated with a text alert the following afternoon.

_Thanks for last night. – Molly_

_Think nothing of it, Miss Hooper. I hope you are well. – MH_

The diplomat patted himself on the back for behaving in a gentlemanly fashion and returned his mobile to his jacket pocket. He didn't expect another word out of the (most likely hungover) pathologist, but unlike most people, Molly defied his expectations. Her next text nearly caused him to spill his tea.

_I am, thank you. Fancy keeping each other warm again some time? – Molly_

_Yes, provided you respect your limits from now on. – MH_

_Of course. :) – Molly_

The pathologist smiled quietly to herself. Who said nothing good ever came out of drunk texting?

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to johnsarmylady for a minor Britpick!_


	3. GamingWatching a Movie

She wondered what she'd been thinking, inviting Mycroft Holmes over to watch a movie. _(It's a bit like inviting the Queen over: no matter what you do, it's never going to impress.)_ He'd accepted, but Molly suspected he wouldn't turn up. Some diplomatic crisis – real or fictitious – was bound to arise, and she'd just be alone again, which was fine, really…

A knock sounded from the front door and the pathologist nearly jumped out of her skin. She scampered to the door, paused a moment to take a deep breath _(mustn't look too eager) _and opened it to find Mycroft Holmes dressed in his version of casual clothes – a button-up shirt and khaki trousers – and brandishing a bouquet of purple lilacs.

"Good evening, Molly," he said as he glided through the door. "I saw these flowers and they rather reminded me of you."

"Oh, they're lovely! I'll fetch a vase." Molly said with a smile, and rummaged through her kitchen in search of a vase. Clumsily, she placed the blooms on the kitchen table and then joined Mycroft in the living room.

"Er, have a seat," she said, gesturing towards the couch. "So, er, care for a drink?"

Mycroft smiled. "I'm sure the red wine in your refrigerator is lovely."

_(How on Earth does he know I have red wine? Wait, he's Mycroft Holmes. Of course he knows.) _ Molly returned with the wine, dimmed the lights and popped in _Casablanca_ – she decided a classic was a safe bet. The two of them settled into a companionable silence as the movie began.

Either the wine was stronger than she thought, or she was more tired than she thought, because a few hours later Mycroft had turned on the light and was gently stroking her arm. _(Oh God. I fell asleep on Mycroft Holmes' shoulder.)_

"Molly, dear, I'm afraid I must be going."

"Oh, um, of course."

"While you're quite lovely when you're asleep, I do hope that next time you shall be a bit more… energetic," he said with a cryptic expression.

After the diplomat left, Molly buried her head in her hands, certain that she'd blown it with yet another man. Just as her pity party got into full swing, a text alert chimed from her phone.

_Look up purple lilacs in Victorian flower language. - Anthea_

Molly arched an eyebrow. _(Mycroft's snooty PA?)_ She tapped out a sceptical reply.

_Why are you telling me this? - Molly_

_Because sometimes my job is to say the things that Mr. Holmes can't. – Anthea_

A quick Google search led Molly to an entirely unexpected result. After thanking Anthea profusely, she went to bed dreaming of a certain posh gentleman.

* * *

_A/N: In Victorian flower language, purple lilacs are the first stirrings of love._


	4. On a Date

Mycroft glanced across the table at Molly Hooper as she delicately wound a bite of spaghetti around her fork. He wasn't the sort of man who had second thoughts, but he had nagging doubts about this. Anthea had arranged it all and while he certainly found Miss Hooper attractive, she was a decade younger than he, and her taste in men was questionable at best. _(It's too soon to discuss James Moriarty, and it's a bit odd to ask about her family up front which leaves…)_

"So, er, did you tell Sherlock anything?" Molly said, interrupting the diplomat's thoughts.

_(He's halfway round the world and I still can't escape the arrogant sod.)_ "No, but I'm sure he'll work it out soon enough. He always did take an interest in abusing my dates," Mycroft said, a hint of annoyance at the end.

Molly smiled. "When my brother was a teenager, I'd show his dates all the dead birds I was dissecting. One girl was so disgusted she dumped him on the spot."

"Once when I was fifteen I brought a girl over. Sherlock was in his pirate phase and 'kidnapped' her to his tree house. It was half an hour before I got her down. Needless to say, I did not bring any more dates home," the diplomat sniffed.

"I suppose that's what younger siblings do, isn't it?"

The diplomat wrinkled his nose. "Perpetually make a nuisance of themselves?"

"No, er, I mean, they get jealous. You know, it's like they want their older brother or sister to themselves, and they get jealous when they see someone butting in."

The corners of Mycroft's mouth turned up at this. "Sherlock never did learn to share. 'How bitter a thing it is to look at happiness through another's eyes.'"

Molly swallowed a bite of pasta and said, "That's from _As You Like It_. Er, Act 5."

Mycroft was subtly impressed. "I must say, one wouldn't suspect someone with a scientific background to have a knowledge of Shakespeare."

The pathologist smiled. "My brother's an actor. I helped him run lines while he was in school, and he did a lot of Shakespeare."

The diplomat leaned forward. "Tell me, which of the Bard's plays is your favourite?"

She thought for a moment and said, "_Much Ado About Nothing_. It's got such a good love story, but it's not sad like _Romeo and Juliet_."

The pair launched into a discussion of the merits of comedy vs. tragedy, with a few of the historical plays thrown in for good measure. Before they knew it, the check had arrived and the restaurant was beginning to clear out. "Er… perhaps I should get you home, Molly. I've an early start tomorrow," Mycroft said, glancing at the empty tables.

After he dropped her off, he directed his driver to take him home. He considered phoning his PA, but given the lateness of the hour, he decided not to worry her and instead sent a text.

_Could you procure two tickets for _Much Ado About Nothing_ at the Noel Coward Theatre next weekend? My usual space in the Royal Circle should be open. – M_

_Of course, Mr. Holmes. I'm glad tonight went well. - A_

_Thank you. - M_


	5. Kissing

The car pulled up in front of Molly's building and paused. He took a moment to wonder if he was being inappropriate, but then it was their second date. It had been a very long time since he'd last done this, and he told himself he wasn't going to count up how long it had been even as his mind worked out the calculation. _(Nevermind that. Focus on the present, the fact that you have a beautiful woman in front of you, and you aren't getting any younger.)_

"I had a lovely time," she said softly. Her eyes reminded him of the deer in the woods by Holmes Manor.

"As did I, Molly," he said, and screwing his courage to the sticking place, he cupped her face gently with his left hand and pulled her closer. Their lips met for the briefest of moments, and Mycroft recalled every romance novel description he'd ever heard of lovers' first kisses even as the technicalities of dopamine release in the ventral tegmental areaand an analysis of Molly's lipstick _(applied 90 minutes ago, last worn a month ago, purchased at Boots because high-end stores overwhelm her) _ratcheted through his mind.

When the kiss broke, Molly smiled up at him. "That, er… was nice."

_(Overused but appropriate word.)_ "Indeed," he said, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "I rather hope there's more ahead."

"Me too," she blurted, and then flushed a deep red. "Er,… well, I'd better get inside," she stammered with a nervous giggle.

"I shall phone tomorrow," he replied. _(Waiting until tomorrow shall be a labour befitting Hercules.)_

She slid out of the car and scampered up to the front door, smiling at him over her shoulder. _(Tomorrow isn't soon enough.)_

* * *

_A/N: "Screw your courage to the sticking place" is a line from MacBeth._


	6. Wearing Each Other's Clothes

_A/N: Jumping forward in time a bit for some established relationship…_

* * *

The microwave dinged and Molly opened it to find a steaming hot bowl of chicken soup. Smiling to herself, she extended her arms towards the floor, allowing the cuffs of the oversized cardigan she was wearing to fall down over her hands. With her hands covered by the sleeves of the jumper, she placed the bowl on the table. There were a great many advantages to dating a tall man, she decided.

"Is that my cardigan?"

The pathologist looked up, startled. "I… er – Mycroft! I didn't hear you come in!"

From the front door, Mycroft frowned briefly and then walked over to Molly and kissed the top of her head. "Darling, while I find it rather adorable when you attempt to wear my jumpers, I request that you refrain from using them as oven mitts, clever though the idea is."

"All right," Molly said a bit sheepishly.

As Mycroft removed his overcoat, Molly cocked an eyebrow. A cashmere scarf in a lovely shade of indigo, identical to the one that Molly's best friend Meena had given her years ago, was looped around Mycroft's neck. _(Same knot Sherlock used to tie…)_

"Er… Mycroft… is that my scarf?"

The diplomat sniffed. "Yes, well, the scarf is a perfect match for my tie, and I knew you wouldn't be going out…"

The pathologist smiled indulgently. "Don't apologise, love; it looks nice." She leaned up to kiss him, and when the kiss broke her fond smile turned into a Cheshire Cat grin. "I can't wait to tell Anthea you were wearing women's clothing!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes as Molly whipped out her mobile. While she was focused on her texting, he popped off to the hall closet and placed the scarf at the back of the top shelf, far out of Molly's reach. There were some advantages to dating a much shorter woman, he decided.


	7. Cosplaying

"I still don't see why you wanted to attend this," Mycroft sniffed as he adjusted his red boutonniere in the full-length bedroom mirror.

Pinning up her hair in the loo, Molly reassured him, "It'll be fun! Besides, you don't look much different than usual."

"Not much different? Remind me to educate you on how men's fashions have changed since 1910," Mycroft scoffed.

"Just be grateful I didn't suggest we go as Anna Leonowens and the King of Siam," Molly said, rolling her eyes and adjusting her hat.

The diplomat pursed his lips. "One, it is far too cold for me to be strolling about London in only short trousers and waistcoat, and two, no one wants to see that!"

_(I do.)_ Molly checked herself out in the mirror one last time and then stepped out of the loo in a long red dress, black hat, crocheted scarf, and carpetbag. Pulling a black overcoat on, she asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"Practically perfect," he said with his version of a smile.

"Good. Ready to go, Mr. Banks?" She said, placing a gloved hand in the crook of Mycroft's elbow.

"I suppose," he sighed as they walked to the front door together. "God, I hate these charity balls; why must we make them more ridiculous by adding costumes to the mix?"

"You're just jealous because you don't get to carry the umbrella," Molly teased, as she picked up a brolly from the stand next to the door.

"I assure you, that is the farthest thing from my mind. My only concern is to escape this evening unscathed," he replied evenly. _(And to ensure you don't accidentally use the weapon in that umbrella…)_


	8. Shopping

"Don't even think about it," Mycroft sniffed, sidling up to Molly.

"Sorry, what?" Molly said with a start. She'd been ambling through H&M, lost in thought, and hadn't heard her boyfriend approach.

Mycroft, just out of his last meeting of the day, gave the item in Molly's hands a withering look. "That blouse is positively ridiculous, Molly. Don't even think of purchasing it."

"What's wrong with it? It's professional but the shiny bits make it more fun," the pathologist replied.

Still wrinkling his nose, he chided, "It isn't at all professional because it will expose your abdomen, and the sequins on the sleeves are gaudy. Not to mention that the cut would not be flattering on you at all, my dear. Baggy clothes make you look like a little girl playing in her mother's clothing." Noticing the slightly wounded expression on Molly's face, he gently placed a hand on her shoulder and offered, "If you would like, I could perhaps assist you in choosing something."

She studied him for a moment and then replied, "All right. I'm, er, trying to find something for work… something that looks nice but can survive formaldehyde exposure."

The government official nodded briefly, and offered Molly his arm, biting back a disparaging comment about the quality of clothing at H&M. _(The woman dissects corpses for a living; higher-end clothing would be impractical. Besides, at least she's attempting to dress like an adult.)_

"The first thing you shall need are decent pair of black trousers," he began. "Black goes with nearly every colour and has the advantage of hiding stains."

Molly smiled. "Sherlock got into your wardrobe a few times, did he?"

"I will never forgive Uncle Rudy for giving him that chemistry set," Mycroft grumbled. Changing the subject, he continued, "As far as cut, I would suggest the boot-cut; while you would look lovely in slim-fitting trousers, they aren't appropriate for the workplace."

Trousers selected, Molly went back to the blouses. To say things did not go well at first was an understatement. Mycroft started out patiently redirecting her, which gradually devolved to simple a "no" for each unacceptable suggestion – and to him, they were all unacceptable.

It was Molly who snapped first. After the tenth item he vetoed, she dejectedly hung the trousers on the nearest rack, looked up at him like a wounded bird and murmured, "Maybe this isn't going to work."

Mycroft blinked. "Darling, if you'd like we could try a different-"

"No, I mean _us_. You think I'm not good enough for you," she whispered.

"Molly, I..." he began, but she had dashed out of the store before he could complete his thought.

The following afternoon, Molly was at home reading a pathology journal and trying to forget she'd ever met the Holmes boys when her doorbell rang. She knew the ringer's identity in a moment, and she decided to ignore it. _(Just because he knows I'm here, it doesn't mean I have to let him in.)_

The bell rang again, and she ignored it again. Then her mobile rang, and she allowed it to go to voicemail. Molly decided that maybe now he'd get the hint and re-buried her nose in the pathology journal.

Outside in the chilly gloom, Mycroft was not amused. He knew she wouldn't check her voice messages, but there were other ways to get through to her.

_I can wait all night, Molly. – M_

She raised an eyebrow at the text. _(You can, but you won't.)_ She returned to her reading, resolutely ignoring her mobile.

Mycroft frowned at the phone for two minutes and three seconds after sending the text while waiting for a response. When none came, he sighed heavily and sent one more message.

_I had hoped to make things up to you today, but since you do not wish to see me, I shall depart. I am leaving a peace offering at your door; I hope you will take it and think of me. - M_

The government official gently deposited a bag on the floor, folding the top over to protect its contents, and then meandered down the hall. He saw the bag on the floor, untouched, when he entered the lift and turned to his BlackBerry, face still a mask.

Molly spent ten more minutes attempting to read the article, but her mind kept going back to whatever Mycroft had left at her front door. After ensuring that he was gone, she cracked the door and pulled the bag inside. Lifting the bag up, the first thing she saw was the bright red H&M logo. There were two purchases inside: the trousers he'd helped her pick out, and beneath them, a blouse with a pattern of bright pink leaves on an ecru background – one of the items he'd told her _not_ to buy. The bag also contained a gift receipt, on the back of which Mycroft had written: _"Darling, my sincerest apologies for making you feel uncomfortable yesterday. My mother always said that our clothes should reflect who we are, and upon further consideration, this is the blouse of a woman who can remain upbeat even when surrounded by death."_

At the Diogenes Club, Mycroft ate a slice of carrot cake while indulging in a good book, both of which he hoped would take his mind off of a certain forensic pathologist. All the while, he mentally chastised himself for being so ridiculous. _(If I wanted to spend the rest of my life with someone who throws a fit at every slight, I would move in with Sherlock.)_

A vibrating mobile interrupted the government official's thoughts. He pulled it out, hoping for some minor diplomatic incident to distract him, but instead he saw a message from Molly Hooper with an attached photo. Before the photo had finished downloading, Mycroft could tell what it was: Molly in the blouse he'd given her, holding up a sign that read "I'm Sorry" with a heart drawn next to the words.

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and then his brows furrowed at the photo's background. As the photo finished downloading and the background became clear, surprise briefly flickered across his face before it returned to its usual calm. Silently, he gathered his things and went outside, finding Molly a few meters past the front door.

"Hi," Molly said meekly, shivering in the cold rain. "I'm… sorry."

He kissed the top of her head, draped his coat over her and said, "Let's discuss this somewhere a bit warmer, shall we?" Moments later, his car pulled up and he ushered her in.


	9. Hanging Out With Friends

It was Christmastime again, and Molly led a grumbling Mycroft Holmes up the 17 steps to 221B Baker Street. It had been two years since Sherlock's "suicide" and a month since his return, and in all that time, his elder brother had not returned to 221B – at least, not when anyone besides Sherlock was there.

"It won't be as bad as you think, love, I promise," Molly pleaded.

"No, it will likely be worse," he griped.

Molly gave him a pointed look and whispered, "Finnish ambassador."

Chastened, Mycroft continued up the stairs. _(Should I live to be 100, I probably won't live that one down…)_

The pair entered Sherlock's flat and Molly called out, "Happy Christmas!"

The guests were exactly whom Mycroft had expected: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John, and Mary. Mrs. Hudson was cheerful, Greg and Mary shook his hand warmly, but John was slightly cooler. _(Grow up, John. I did what had to be done.)_

From the corner, Sherlock snorted, "Hello, Mycroft. I'm surprised to see you out at this hour. Molly, I hope he didn't give you too much trouble – he's always cranky when he's up past his bedtime."

"Greetings to you too, dear brother. I see you're as mirthful as ever," Mycroft replied with a smarmy smile.

"Oh, boys, don't start in on this now! It's Christmas," Mrs. Hudson chided.

"Yeah, save the bickering for after you open your presents," Lestrade teased.

Mrs. Hudson turned to Molly. "Care for a drink? I've made some lovely mulled wine."

The women settled in at one corner of the flat while Sherlock and Greg got into an argument over the number of copycats spawned by Jack the Ripper, leaving John and Mycroft stuck together.

"Nice to see you again, Doctor Watson," Mycroft began. "You look well."

"No thanks to you," John sneered.

Mycroft frowned, then sighed heavily. "Doctor Watson, might I remind you that I saved his life – and yours."

John looked up at Mycroft, rage smoldering in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, then glanced over at Mary as if reminding himself to lower his voice, and angrily whispered, "You made me think I watched my best friend take his own life, and then you sat idly by while I blamed myself for what he did. I know you had cameras on me, Mycroft. You saw how many times I took out my gun after Sherlock died; would it have killed you to ring me up and say, 'Hey, guess what? He's not actually dead!'"

The government official's mouth turned up at the corners. "Of course! Your suddenly lighter mood wouldn't have been at all suspicious to Moriarty's men. You'd have been in no danger whatsoever!"

"And staring a gun all day is _safe?"_ The ex-soldier demanded, his voice still quiet but harsh.

"I had people protecting you, John. They would never have allowed any harm to come to you." When John glared stonily, Mycroft continued, "Furthermore, you thought that I betrayed Sherlock and allowed him to be ruined. Had I told you that Sherlock was still alive, would you have believed me?"

John looked over at Mary, who was telling a story about patients gone wild, to the delight of Mrs. Hudson and Molly. He smiled at the women, and then, face returning to its former mask, "I probably would have given you a bloody nose before you'd even opened your mouth."

"And that is precisely why I never visited you," Mycroft said. "It's terribly difficult to remove bloodstains from one's clothing."

"I do not want to know how you know that," the doctor muttered.

"Definitely not." After a pause, Mycroft said, "John, do you remember what I told you when you came to the Diogenes Club just before the… situation… at Bart's?"

"You said to tell Sherlock you were sorry, as if your apology somehow made up for the fix he was in," John snorted.

"The apology was not directed at him," the British government breathed, a thousand-yard stare on his face. "It was directed at you, for what we were about to do to you. You didn't deserve any of it, and we certainly never intended for you to watch Sherlock jump. We expected you to be here, safely away from Moriarty's men. It appears that our best laid plans were no match for your loyalty."

Before John could respond, Sherlock called out, "John! Pass me my phone!" The doctor muttered under his breath about not having missed this bit and stomped over to the detective's coat to fish out the mobile. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief and went over to join the women, placing a kiss on the top of Molly's head.

The party continued much as earlier Christmas parties at 221B had. Sherlock deigned to play a few carols on his violin and pretended he didn't enjoy being the center of attention, Molly was slightly awkward but warmed up after her first drink, and Mrs. Hudson got to relax for a change. Mycroft and John remained in an uneasy truce, not speaking to each other the remainder of the night.

In the car on the way home, Molly looked at Mycroft with concern. "Are you all right, love?"

"Yes, dear."

"You just haven't said much since you spoke with John." Molly was about to ask what was going on and then understanding dawned. "Oh."

"John is still upset," the government official said stiffly. "I doubt I shall ever make it up to him."

Molly reached over, her small hand only halfway encircling Mycroft's. "He'll come around, love. He's still adjusting to… everything."

Mycroft muttered something non-committal and changed the subject, attempting to distract himself from the knowledge that he'd sworn an oath to protect people like John Watson and Bart's had been a breach of that oath.


	10. With Animal Ears

_A/N: This chapter includes the nieces and nephew JGRhodes gave Molly in "The Brolly Brigade", which is the first MollCroft fic I ever read and got me aboard this ship._

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sat at the rickety sidewalk café table with his best fake smile. He wondered just what in the hell had got into him, allowing Molly to talk him into accompanying her when she took her nephew and nieces to Disneyland Paris. _("But the children adore you, Mycroft! And your French is so much better than mine!")_ She'd given him the pleading look, and Anthea had somehow made all of his other commitments for the weekend disappear. The thought made him stifle an indignant sniff. He technically didn't need to stifle anything – Molly had take Katie and Caleb to the souvenir shop, leaving him with three-year-old Lilly, who was singularly focused on her chips. But, as Mummy always used to say, a proper gentleman is on his best behaviour even when nobody's watching.

"Mr. Holmes!" Caleb called out, nearly causing the diplomat to spill his tea. "We got you something!"

Mycroft turned to see Caleb and Katie grinning brilliantly and Molly looking slightly embarrassed. All three of them were wearing Mickey Mouse ears with their names emblazoned on them. Katie carried a smaller set for Lilly and Caleb was holding out… oh, God.

He looked at Molly as if she'd just asked him to use his favourite waistcoat to mop up spilled wine. She met his eyes and said, "We all got them, and the children didn't want you to be left out."

"Please put them on, Mr. Holmes," Katie begged. "We didn't think we'd find ones with your name on them, but then we did and it was like a sign! How many other Mycrofts are there?"

Mycroft reminded himself to send Anthea to the next meeting with the dullard from Canada, and reluctantly placed the ears on his head. Molly smiled and bit her lower lip, the older two children burst into cheers, and Lilly clapped her ketchup-covered hands.

"Right," Molly said. "Who wants to see Aladdin's Enchanted Passage?" The children hooted, the pathologist gently hoisted Lilly out of her booster seat, and the diplomat placed his hand on the small of Molly's back as they departed the café.

In a well-appointed London office, Anthea ate chocolate chip ice cream as she watched the CCTV footage of the Disneyland party. Dabbing the tears of mirth from her eyes, she noticed a text.

_Satisfied? – M_

Still chuckling, she tapped out a reply. _Best birthday present you've ever given me, Mr. Holmes. – A_


	11. Wearing Kigurumis

Molly Hooper ran through the halls of Bart's, desperately searching for the morgue. She'd worked in this building for years; how had she gotten so lost? Every turn was a dead end, until she went around one corner and found herself in the woods. _(What the hell?) _She turned around to go back to Bart's, and suddenly there was no Bart's, just more trees, and she was late for work!

As if things couldn't get any stranger, she heard a rustling from a bush and out popped Mycroft Holmes… in a panda costume that resembled footed pajamas.

"Mycroft? What's going on?"

"Molly! It's the end of the world and you aren't dressed properly! Never fear, I can fix that!" He snapped his fingers and Molly looked down to discover that her lab coat had been replaced by a panda costume that matched Mycroft's. Before she could protest, the ground shook and she found herself falling and…

…opened her eyes in her own bedroom. Molly sat up and shook her head vigorously as if to shake out the dream_. (That's the last time I eat sushi before bed!)_

* * *

_A/N: Cop-out, yes… but really, can you think of any other way to get Mycroft into a kigurumi? :)_


	12. Making Out

Sherlock Holmes barged into the building in Whitehall, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the security detail, and breezed past Anthea (or whatever her name was this week) towards his brother's office.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you, Mr. Holmes," she said absently, not looking away from her computer. _(I could tell Sherlock that his brother was on the roof playing croquet with extraterrestrials and he wouldn't notice.)_

The detective snorted and opened Mycroft's door. When he saw the goings-on in the office, he came to an abrupt halt and cried out in horror. A young woman sat on Mycroft's desk with her legs wrapped around him as Mycroft snogged her senseless. _(Even more disgusting than that terror cell in Qatar!) _Just when Sherlock thought it couldn't possibly get worse, Mycroft turned to the side, revealing that his lady-friend was Molly Hooper. A very pink Molly Hooper, with her shirt half unbuttoned and a black lace bra peeking out. Mycroft had one hand on Molly's cheek and Sherlock immediately deleted the location of the other hand.

"Perhaps now you'll finally learn to knock before you enter a room," Mycroft sniffed, as Molly burst into giggles.


	13. Eating Ice Cream

"Don't try to talk. The tonsils and adenoids are highly vascular and if the scabs come off, it'll be… messy," Molly instructed.

Mycroft frowned at her.

"Yes, I know you know that," she said, rolling her eyes at the man in the bed. "But I'm not doing my job if I don't say it."

He sighed dramatically and folded his arms. _(Does your "job" include treating me like a child?)_

"I know you're in a lot of pain, love, but you've got to take food and fluids to avoid dehydration post-operatively. I'll be back with your pain medicine and some food," she said with a smile. "And if you need me urgently, ring the bell. I'd tell you to think of yourself as the Dowager Countess, but you probably already do," she snickered.

Mycroft let out an indignant huff as she departed. _(Seven to ten days on a steady diet of broth. If Hell exists, broth is the only item on the menu in its canteen.)_

The pathologist returned a few minutes later with a dose of liquid codeine and a tray. When Mycroft saw what she'd brought him, the expression on his face was priceless. _(Chocolate ice cream! Molly Hooper, you are a jewel.)_

Molly placed the tray on Mycroft's bed and sat down next to the bed with her own bowl of ice cream. "I had my tonsils out when I was ten, and my dad let me have chocolate ice cream every day for a week after. I always think of him when I eat it." She paused and sheepishly took a bite. "Er… sorry… you probably want to be left alone."

He reached out and placed and hand on hers. Gesturing for a pen and paper, he scribbled a note. _"Tell me more about your father,"_ it read.

"Er… but don't you already know?"

_"Yes, but I rather appreciate the sound of your voice."_


	14. Genderswapped

Normally in a heterosexual couple, the female is the one who spends the most time grooming. At the Hooper-Holmes residence, it was the opposite. Molly Hooper never spent more than ten minutes getting ready in the morning: throw some clothes on, brush teeth, brush hair, tie ponytail, done. She'd long ago given up on makeup, and she hadn't the foggiest idea what to do with mousse, or gel, or hairspray, other than make herself look positively ridiculous. Her clothes were decidedly more for function than form, and she never paid a great deal of attention to the way she looked, save for ensuring that she was properly warm in winter.

Mycroft was an altogether different creature. He spent an hour each morning on shower, shave, aftershave, moisturizer – Molly even swore he used wrinkle cream, although the government official vehemently denied this. Each day's suit was chosen the night before with the utmost care, bearing in mind which meetings he would have the following day, whom he expected to see, what tasks might arise, and expected weather conditions. Accessories – tie, pocket square, braces, and socks – were likewise picked with an extreme attention to detail. The elder Holmes sometimes wondered if Molly even knew what an accessory was.

Molly spent a great deal of time waiting for Mycroft while he shopped, during which she amused herself with comic books or caught up on e-mail. Mycroft often thought of making over his sweetheart, but knew it had to come slowly, as she was somewhat resistant to change.

Two weeks before Christmas, Molly found herself visiting The Body Shop for the first time. All of her previous ideas for Mycroft's present – bottle of brandy, scarf, cologne – had, for various reasons, been thrown out and now she was down to the only items she knew Mycroft used but would never admit: skin-firming lotion and anti-wrinkle serum. She decided to throw in a scented candle for good measure _(he won't admit to liking long baths, either, but I've seen the ring round the tub)._

"Would you like this gift-wrapped, miss?" The teenaged salesgirl asked.

"Yes, it's for my, er…" _(What are we, again?) _"Sweetheart." _(Yes, that works!)_

The salesgirl gave her a wink and whispered conspiratorially, "I'm sure she'll love it!"

Across town, Mycroft perused an upscale department store for the perfect scarf for Molly. _(Nothing with a prominent logo, no wild prints, something that can be paired with more than one item in her current wardrobe…)_ After several minutes of searching, he found the perfect thing: an extremely soft black scarf with fine silver threads running through it – so fine that one would have to be within a meter of the wearer to truly notice them.

When the shopgirl asked if Mycroft wanted the item giftwrapped, he replied in the affirmative. "It's for someone special," he said in a genteel tone.

The girl nodded and wrapped the purchase, then handed it back to Mycroft saying, "I'm sure your boyfriend will look smashing in it!"

* * *

_A/N: As of this morning, there are 100 reviews on this story! Thank you, everyone!_


	15. In a Different Clothing Style

Mycroft Holmes trudged down the streets of London, ignoring the people and the carriages passing him. _(How is it that in the Year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and two, the greatest city on Earth remains mired in ignorance?)_ It had been a long day of solving problems for His Majesty's government, and all he wanted at this hour was the peace and quiet of the Diogenes Club. He was nearly to the entrance when a female voice disrupted his thoughts.

A young woman in a black crape dress and matching bonnet said, "Excuse me, sir?"

_(Hands are rough and uncared-for, but speech suggests an educated mind. Bag is Army-issue – former Nursing Sister*, then. Tan: recent return from service in Africa. Full mourning: recent loss of someone dear. No mark on ring finger: spinster, not widow. Picture-book and toy soldiers in bag: young boy at home. The recently-deceased was her only remaining parent, and her younger brother is now in her charge.) _

"Miss?" Mycroft said, lifting his bowler hat in recognition of the lady.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes," he said cautiously.

Her voice trembled as she asked, "Were you acquainted with a Mr. Reginald Hooper?"

"Pray tell, why do you ask?"

"Her voice trembled as she spoke, "He was my father and he passed away recently and I recall that he assisted you in founding the Diogenes Club…"

Mycroft huffed and checked the time on his pocketwatch. "Out with it, madam, I do not have all day."

Molly straightened herself and met Mycroft's eyes. "Mr. Holmes, the police think my father killed himself, but I do not believe them. My father was an upright man, and he would not have committed such an atrocious sin. Since you knew him…"

"I knew him as well as any member of the Diogenes Club can know another, which is to say not at all. I'm sorry, Miss Hooper," he said, as he made for the door.

"Mr. Holmes! I beg of you, if you cannot assist me, might you direct me to someone who could? If not for my sake, then for that of my brother – he is only six years of age and our mother died in childbed. I want him to grow up with the knowledge that our parents were honourable people who loved him. Please, Mr. Holmes, my father always spoke highly of your intellect! Is there nothing you can do?"

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at the woman. _(Pupils dilated, maintaining eye contact. Convinced of her father's innocence, not merely in denial.)_ Turning slightly, he replied, "Madam, I am afraid that if it is legwork you require, then you are, as they say, barking up the wrong tree. However, my brother Sherlock Holmes relishes this sort of work, and I am quite sure that he would be delighted to take your case."

Molly's eyes shone with excitement. "Would he, Mr. Holmes?"

"I daresay he would," he replied. He hailed a hansom cab and handed a her a few pounds. "Tell the driver to take you to 221B Baker Street."

* * *

_*In the early 1900s, Sister was an official rank for nurses in Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service, equivalent to the rank of Lieutenant in the modern British Army._

_This chapter is inspired by the Conan Doyle story "The Greek Interpreter" in which Sherlock and Mycroft provide dueling deductions over a passerby._


	16. During Their Morning Rituals

Molly dragged herself out of bed, ignoring the time on the alarm clock. (_Waking up at 0500 is much easier if you pretend it's 0600.)_ Yawning, she padded into the loo and began brushing her teeth. As she spit into the sink, she glanced down at her mobile and noticed a new text had just arrived.

_Te amo._

Smiling drowsily, she tapped out a reply.

_Je t'aime._

The recipient, who was shaving his face in a Geneva hotel room, paused for a moment when his BlackBerry buzzed and sent a message of his own.

_Ich liebe dich._

The pathologist was getting dressed when the text arrived and responded in her stocking feet, shirt half-buttoned. As she hit send, a crafty smile spread across her face.

_Ninakupenda._

Her correspondent arched his eyebrow at the text and decided she must have learned more on that internship in Kenya than he thought. Tie still undone, he decided to up the ante.

_Ya tebya lyublyu._

Molly received the text as she waited for her breakfast to heat up. She frowned for a moment and then began snickering when she sent her response.

_Te amo._

In the car on the way to his meeting, Mycroft looked at the text askance.

_I've already used Latin, darling. - M_

_It's Spanish, silly! – Molly_

_Fine, then. Aishiteru. -M_

_All right, you win! Have a good day, love. - Molly_

_The same to you, my dear. -M_

Molly walked to the Tube station with a spring in her step. It was a good day, indeed.

* * *

_A/N: From the top, Molly and Mycroft are texting "I love you" to each other in: Latin, French, German, Swahili, Russian, Spanish, and Japanese. Isn't Google Translate wonderful?_

_Thanks to Akulku and darthsydious for pointing out goofs!_


	17. Spooning

Molly lay on her side, trying to ignore the chill she felt despite the huge duvet. _(I bloody hate winter. Dark, cold, rain and snow all the time… it's uncivilised!)_ As her mental complaints piled up, an arm slipped around her torso and a body clad in silk pajamas snuggled up to her back. He nuzzled her hair with his nose and placed his hand protectively over hers. Warmth soaked in through her back and his peaceful breathing wafted into her ear. He murmured a sweet nothing and she smiled. _(At least winter has one advantage.)_

Mycroft awoke that morning entirely too cold; it seemed that Molly's flat was always an icebox. He glanced over at the other side of the bed and saw her cocooned in the duvet and seized upon the most efficient way to warm up. He rolled over and draped one arm over her, pulling her close to his chest. He buried his nose in the messy brown hair _(pomegranate shampoo – Tesco's must have been out of her usual)_ and covered her small hand with his. _(Barely a size J ring; Granny's would have to be resized…)_ She sighed contentedly as he whispered a term of endearment. She was asleep again in minutes, and before long, so was he.

* * *

_A/N: A size J ring is roughly equivalent to US ring size 4.5. Average is 6-8 (or L-Q in Britain), meaning Molly's hands are quite small indeed._


	18. Doing Something Together

Mycroft rolls over in bed and drowsily picks up his clattering mobile. "Hello," he says, voice calm despite the fact that it's two thirty-five in the morning and he's just been jolted out of a sound sleep.

"Mr. Holmes," his PA begins, "I'm sorry to wake you at this hour, but I'm afraid I've bad news and it can't wait."

"What is it?" He replies, as Molly buries her face farther into the pillow.

"It's your brother, sir. He's at Bart's," Anthea says. "Just arrived at Emergency. Doctors are still assessing him."

He tells her he's on his way and then hangs up. Molly turns to face him and blinks as he switches on the light. "What's going on?"

"I must go, darling. It's Sherlock."

"I'm coming with you," she replies, and her tone tells him she won't be argued with this time.

Wordlessly, the pair of them dress and stumble downstairs to the waiting black Mercedes. They ride to Bart's in silence, Molly furtively glancing at the elder Holmes in an attempt to gain clues as to his emotional state. It doesn't do her much good; he's worried, certainly, but "worried about Sherlock" is Mycroft's default mode. She attempts to tell herself that they don't know anything yet. It could just be a broken bone or a concussion. It's probably nothing to worry about, she thinks, nothing he won't bounce back from.

They arrive at Bart's and make their way to Emergency. Molly sees the flurry of activity in and just outside of Sherlock's room and her hopes are dashed. It might have been awhile since she had a living patient, but she knows that you don't need this many people for a mere broken leg. She holds Mycroft's hand as they are ushered to a family waiting room down the hall, and for once, he doesn't comment.

They watch the clock, and when the doctor enters, they both take a deep breath.

* * *

_A/N: To be continued… much later._


	19. In Formal Wear

_A/N: Here's the situation, MollCroft shippers: Mr. Hummingbird and I are going out of town tomorrow, and so to ensure that the challenge is completed within 30 days, I'm posting the chapters for Thursday, Feb. 20 – Sunday Feb. 23 tonight. Regular posting will resume Monday, Feb. 24. Thanks to johnsarmylady for a Britpicky detail on this chapter!_

* * *

Molly Hooper stepped out of the black car in a sequined dark purple evening gown with a thigh-high slit and black stilettos. Mycroft, dressed in white tie and tails, reached out a gloved hand to assist her, and the two of them entered the hotel arm in arm. The couple turned heads as they walked across the lobby, casually dressed tourists feeling very small in comparison. He ignored the attention while she couldn't help feeling a bit self-conscious; usually when people stared at her, it was because she'd done something wrong.

He gently smiled down at her and whispered, "Relax, Molly. You are the most beautiful woman in this room."

She blushed a bit and stumbled in her heels. "Thank you," she replied sheepishly. "You look handsome."

When the approached the ballroom where the gala event was to be held, Molly sucked in her breath. As the doors swung open, Molly gazed about the room in wonderment before quickly rearranging her face into a calm smile. _(Don't do anything stupid! They'll think you're a chav!)_ Her head spun as they breezed across the room, saying hello to all of Mycroft's old University chums and colleagues in the government. When they finally reached their seat, Molly was overwhelmed with all the new faces and introductions, and then dinner began.

"So, what do you do, Miss Hooper?" The stately wife of one of Mycroft's colleagues asked.

"Er… I'm a doctor," Molly said softly. "I work at Bart's."

"Really! It's so lovely to see a young woman in medicine! Tell me, what's your specialty?"

_(Shit.)_ Molly could see how this would go – she'd tell the woman that she dissects dead bodies for a living, there would be an awkward silence, and everyone would spend the rest of the evening avoiding her.

Before she could speak, Mycroft cut in. "Oh, Mrs. Merriweather, I've been meaning to ask you if you shall be hosting the benefit for the RSPCA again this year?"

"Of course, Mycroft! It's the highlight of my year!"

Molly squeezed Mycroft's knee under the table. "I love the RSPCA! I got my cat from a shelter."

The two women began discussing animals, and dinner passed uneventfully. After the dishes were cleared, the band began playing and Molly breathed a sigh of relief. _(It's all downhill from here. There's no way he'll want to dance.)_


	20. Dancing

_A/N: Sequel to the "In formal wear" chapter._

* * *

After dinner ended, the band began to play a waltz. Mycroft stood and extended a hand to Molly. "May I have this dance?"

The pathologist blinked. "Er… uh… yes," she stammered.

He led her out to the dance floor and gracefully placed his right hand on her back while taking her right hand with his left. She clumsily placed a hand on his shoulder. As he stepped in time with the music, Molly turned a deep crimson.

"Er… love… I don't know how to dance," she whispered.

"It's quite all right, darling," Mycroft said, leaning down. "Just follow my lead."

After a few songs of stumbling along with Mycroft she managed to take her eyes off their feet and look up at him. He gently whispered to her she was doing fine. She looked at him in awe and asked where he learned to dance.

He smiled minutely. "Mummy. She was determined that her sons would be proper gentlemen, and so we both took dancing lessons for several years."

Molly blinked, incredulous. "Sherlock can dance?"

"Yes. He hates it, but he's quite good. I've some photos of him at dancing lessons which I've found to be exceedingly useful as blackmail material."

Molly giggled at this but quickly regained her composure. "Love… do you think you could teach me a few things? For next time?"

"I would be delighted," he said, and they continued swaying to the music.


	21. CookingBaking

Molly approached Mycroft's townhouse with more than her usual trepidation. This… thing… between them was still rather new and fragile, and one slip-up would shatter it. _(And of course it'd be me to slip up.) _ She rang the bell and was a bit surprised that Mycroft came to the door himself.

"Afternoon, darling," he said, ushering her in with a peck on the cheek. "Might I take your coat?"

She handed it to him and then asked, "So, er… you wanted me to help you with something?"

"Yes, I rather think it's time I introduced you to one of my favourite hobbies," he said, as he took her to the kitchen.

Molly wasn't sure what she had expected to see in Mycroft's kitchen, but it definitely was not flour, sugar, cocoa, shortening, milk, eggs, and a top-of-the-line mixer. "Baking?"

"I find it the best way to spend a lazy Sunday. Despite what my GP thinks, it's been quite good for my health – without a way to relieve stress, I'd have died from a heart attack years ago," the diplomat replied. He handed Molly a white apron and donned one of his own.

"Now, cream together the cocoa, sugar, and shortening* while I start the oven," he said.

"Er, what does 'cream together' mean?" Molly murmured.

He looked at her in wonderment. "Haven't you ever made a cake before?"

"Um… no. My mum wasn't much of a cook; all the cakes in our house came from Tesco's." Molly stared at the floor, certain she'd made a fool of herself.

"Then it's high time I repaired this defect in your education," he said gently. "First, ensure the butter is at room temperature – which I've already seen to – then add the sugar and the cocoa, and start the mixer on the lowest speed." As the mixer whirred, he handed her a rubber spatula and continued, "You want to push those stray bits down into the centre of the bowl to ensure they all get in."

The pathologist looked at him hesitantly, but complied, trying not to remember the accident victims she'd seen in medical school. As she wielded the spatula, he gently placed his hand over hers as a guide.

"That's it, darling," he murmured. When the batter was well-combined, he nodded towards the eggs and told her to crack two of them in. Then he fetched a measuring cup of milk and drizzled in a bit. "Measure out the flour and then add a bit of it in – we'll alternate adding the milk and the flour."

She studied the recipe card, which was handwritten in a ladylike script, battered at the corners and stained. "This must be an old recipe," she said as she scooped out the flour.

Mycroft nodded. "It was my grandmother's. She made it for my father and uncle's birthdays every year, and after she passed on, my mother inherited her recipe file and she made this for my birthday."

"Not Sherlock's?" Molly asked as she sprinkled in more flour.

The diplomat rolled his eyes in a manner that caused his companion to bite back a giggle. "Sherlock always was a finicky eater. I think our parents indulged him a bit too much in that regard." When the flour and milk were all in, Mycroft added a dash of salt, a dash of vanilla, and then heated up the kettle. He explained, "The secret ingredient in this recipe is boiling water. It helps to bring out the flavour of the chocolate."

Half an hour later, the cake was finished and the posh gentleman cut slices for both of them. "Now, tell me what you think," he said, as he fed her a bite.

The cake's texture was perfect and the chocolate exploded on Molly's tongue. She gasped, "That's the best cake I've ever had!"

He smiled fondly. "Only because you are the best assistant I've ever had," he replied, and leaned in to kiss her.

* * *

_*Since several people have asked, shortening is semi-solid vegetable oil. If you haven't got shortening, cooking oil, butter, or margarine can be substituted._

_The recipe Mycroft uses is my husband's grandmother's recipe for chocolate cake – and yes, boiling water really does improve the taste! PM me if you want the recipe, but be warned that I'm American and it's not in metric units. :)_


	22. In Battle, Side-by-Side

Molly stands by the window of Bart's hospital, one eye on the scene outside and one eye on her phone. She could never get service in the morgue and had to invent an excuse to be upstairs. _(Thank heaven Mike Stamford's lab had the proper view – he never looks at the badge logs.)_

She is here anticipating one of two texts: either a text from Sherlock explaining that everything is fine or…

_LAZARUS IS GO._

The text reaches her just as Sherlock falls past the window. She jumps at the sight, then shakes it off and springs into action. She and two of Sherlock's homeless network haul a body dressed in the Belstaff coat and blue scarf out of the window and it hits the ground with a sickening thud.

At the Diogenes Club, Mycroft Holmes is the nerve center of the operation. With the Lazarus plan in action, he has no time to waste. He texts a message to three of his best people; they've been waiting at the old church where the sniper targeting John is stationed. All three train their guns on him simultaneously. At the sound of the safeties coming off the guns, Moriarty's man looks over his shoulder, sees the guns pointed at him, and he takes his sights off of the weeping John Watson. After he disassembles his gun, he's taken into custody.

Back at the morgue, Molly and her assistants have scuttled the fake Sherlock onto a slab while the real Sherlock sneaks out the rear exit. She makes a phone call to Mycroft Holmes asking him to come to Bart's and identify his brother's body. As she speaks, she's looking at the other body, worrying that Sherlock may yet wind up on a slab or in a ditch in some Godforsaken place and die with the world thinking he's a fraud. It's this fear that lends credence to her voice and helps convince Moriarty's people that Sherlock is dead.

The homeless network hides Sherlock in the boot of a car and drives him to a safe house in the London suburbs. Meanwhile, Mycroft checks in with his agents at Baker Street and the Yard, ensuring that the sniper assigned to Mrs. Hudson and Moriarty's mole at the Yard have both been neutralised.

Molly fills out the death certificate for Sherlock, paying even more meticulous attention to detail than usual. Ninety minutes later, Mycroft arrives, and with a curt nod, identifies the body on the slab as his brother. Molly offers her usual awkward condolences, and Mycroft gives her a clipped "thank you" and leaves.

Mycroft will spend the next few days interrogating the Moriarty agents he's brought into custody, finding leads on which cells of the web can be taken down first, and ferreting out the pieces of James Moriarty that Richard Brook forgot to conceal. Molly will autopsy "Sherlock's" body with her usual thoroughness, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that the body is whom they think it is.

Both Molly and Mycroft will attend Sherlock's funeral with guilty consciences. Mycroft, in particular, will stay out of sight – especially out of John Watson's sight – for fear of instigating the doctor's wrath. His guilt is well known to Sherlock's associates, but Molly's remains under wraps.

Two weeks after the funeral, a bouquet of deep pink roses with a card reading "In Gratitude" appears on Molly's desk. The card isn't signed, but she knows exactly who sent it.


	23. Arguing

Mycroft Holmes savagely ran the lint roller over his trousers. The expression on his face might cause a person to think he'd eaten an entire lemon, but he'd had no close encounters of the citrus kind. The source of his displeasure was four-legged, furry, and looking up at him from the bed with an amused expression.

"I don't see what is so funny, you repulsive feline. You've a cat bed, multiple couches, and when we aren't using it, this bed upon which to deposit yourself, and yet you are determined to nap upon my trousers! Now they're covered in cat fur, and I've a meeting in 45 minutes!"

"What's the matter?" Molly blundered into the bedroom with a yawn, having just come off an overnight shift at Bart's.

Mycroft snorted, "Your _creature_ appears to have mistaken my suit for its bed."

"His _name's_ Toby," the pathologist replied sullenly.

The elder Holmes took a deep breath, looked her in the eye and growled, "I don't care what _its_ name is, it needs to stop shedding all over my clothes!"

Molly's jaw dropped a bit. She took a step back and murmured, "You really do hate him?"

"Superb deduction," the government official growled.

Her face took on a ferocity that he had never seen before and hoped never to see again. "Get out," she snarled.

"What?"

Fire raged in Molly's eyes. "Get _out_, Mycroft!"

The posh man's eyes widened. "You're choosing your _cat_ over me?"

"Yes," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. "He- he's important. If you can't deal with that then I don't know if…"

Silence hung in the air between them. After what seemed like an eternity, Mycroft demanded, "If what?"

"If I can see you any more," she said quietly.

"Fine. I shall send someone for my things," he scowled.

The government official sidled past Molly and noiselessly stalked out the door. When he slid into his car, he asked the driver to take him to Buckingham Palace and quickly directed his attention to affairs of state. If the driver noticed the extra lines around the official's eyes, he didn't mention it.

As soon as Mycroft left, Molly threw herself on the bed sobbing. Toby curled up next to her and purred, utterly oblivious to what had just happened.


	24. Making Up Afterwards

The Queen gazed at him over her spectacles. "Is that all, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She frowned and replied, "Forgive One for being sceptical, but you seem a bit troubled. If there's something you're holding back, One reminds you that One isn't ready to be put out to pasture yet!"

Mycroft gave his best fake smile and replied, "Ma'am, you remain the only person on Earth who can see through me. I assure you, it's nothing to do with national security. It's a personal matter."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh God, what's that brother of yours done now?"

The official's face relaxed slightly. "You'll be happy to hear, ma'am, that he's been remarkably well-behaved since his return. No, this is… rather a different sort of personal matter."

For a moment, the monarch of 16 sovereign nations and the head of the Church of England reminded Mycroft of Mrs. Hudson. "Oh dear, your lady-friend? What seems to be the trouble?"

The gentleman blinked. _(I never told her I was seeing anyone.) _"Er… I couldn't trouble you with such a thing, ma'am."

The corners of the Queen's mouth turned up. "Mr. Holmes, you have served your country far better than any of your predecessors, and until you began seeing Dr. Hooper, One despaired of Britain ever having another like you. If there is even the slightest hope of a second Mycroft Holmes gracing this sceptered isle, One will nurture that hope with all One has!"

Slightly embarrassed, he said, "It's her cat, ma'am. She's inordinately fond of the thing and I find it repugnant."

"You young people, always turning a trifle into an ordeal," the monarch muttered. "Mr. Holmes, One wishes to remind you that while humans can live ninety years, the cat will only live another fifteen at the outside. Ask yourself: would you rather spend the next fifteen years with her and the cat, or the next fifty alone?"

The government official looked at the floor in silence.

The Queen smiled quietly to herself. "In that case, Mr. Holmes, work this out immediately. The future of the realm may depend upon it."

That evening, a very posh gentleman holding a large plastic bag knocked on the door of Molly's flat. Molly, still in her stocking feet and hair a wreck, opened the door and attempted to scowl at him.

"I thought you were sending someone for your things," she groused.

"Change of plans. Might I come in? I knew you were working another overnight, so I thought you would appreciate breakfast," he said, attempting to smile.

Molly considered this for a moment, trying to ignore the smell of bacon in the takeaway bag. "Will you promise to be kind to Toby?"

"On my honour," Mycroft replied stiffly.

Still frowning at the tall man, Molly let him in. Mycroft waltzed into the kitchen, placed the bag on the counter and began removing its contents. "Have a seat, darling. We've ample time until you are expected at work, and a bowl of instant oatmeal is not likely to sustain you through a twelve hour shift."

The pathologist sat at the kitchen table and frowned at the back of the government official's head. _(Posh twit, thinks he can just charm his way back in. Who does he think he is? I've a right mind to… dear God, that smells good.)_

Mycroft put two plates of food on the table and sat down next to Molly. "Darling, I wish to apologise for my earlier behaviour. I was frustrated with Toby and a bit concerned about work. I should not have lost my temper, particularly when you had just come off of a stressful night."

"So… you don't hate him?"

He paused for a moment, took her hand and said, "I have never been and likely never shall be what one would call a 'cat person', or a 'dog person', or indeed any sort of 'animal person.' However, earlier today a very old friend reminded me that sacrifice is a necessary component of any relationship. Toby is important to you, and you are important to me, therefore, Toby must also be important to me."

Molly smiled in spite of herself. "That's nice to hear. I'm… er… sorry I threw you out."

"Apology accepted, darling. Now," he said, tucking into his black pudding, "I have given some thought as to how to avoid future such occurrences. It occurs to me that you and I spend a great deal of time at each other's homes, and it seems rather inefficient for us to continue to maintain separate domiciles. Furthermore, with a greater amount of space, one could exclude Toby from certain areas without anyone feeling confined."

She swallowed a bite of bacon and looked at him in amazement. "Er, what are you trying to say?"

"Pending approval of my superiors – which is merely a formality in your case – I thought perhaps you and Toby might care to make my home yours. The townhouse has a garden where he can roam freely and the staff can keep him out of my closet."

"What about the bed? He's used to sleeping on my bed," Molly pointed out.

Mycroft sniffed, and with a glint in his eye replied, "Fine – _if _we can occasionally remove him."

"All right," she said, and leaned across the table to kiss him.

A week later, the official again found himself in a meeting with the monarch. After answering her insightful questions on North Korea, he asked her if she needed anything else from him.

"No, Mr. Holmes, that will be all. Now run along, and give your lady-friend One's regards."

"Yes ma'am, I shall. And, er, thank you for the advice."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Holmes," the Queen replied. "After sixty-six years of marriage, One would like to think One knows a bit about relationships. And Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Don't even think of giving her your grandmother's ring. Lovely gesture though it is, I'm afraid it's a bit too ostentatious for her taste, not to mention the difficulty in resizing it."

"Er… yes, ma'am," Mycroft said sheepishly, and bade the Queen goodbye.

* * *

_A/N:_ _My apologies to the Queen for dragging her into this mess. Please don't throw me in the Tower! The way she's depicted here is loosely based on the Queen_UK Twitter account._


	25. Gazing Into Each Other's Eyes

_A/N: Here there be schmoop._

* * *

Mycroft didn't think he would ever get married. Some people thought he felt that way because he wasn't interested in the opposite – or _any_ – sex. (None of those people had known him during his time at University.) Others thought that he didn't believe in the institution of marriage. That also wasn't true; Mycroft was a rational man and could see reasons why a person would want to marry, such as sharing property or stability for raising children. Still others thought that Mycroft had stayed out of relationships because he was married to his work. That was closer to the truth, but not quite it. He'd been an ambitious young man and had thrown himself into his duties with full force after graduating from University. Young Mycroft wanted to get married someday, but he told himself there'd be time for romance later, after he finished this project, resolved that diplomatic crisis, got baby brother out of trouble again… and then one day, he woke up and he was nearly forty years old and barely recognised the man in the mirror. The window of opportunity had closed, and nothing would change that.

Molly figured she'd always be single. She'd had a few dates as a teenager but nothing serious, and she'd had a few boyfriends in her twenties, but the relationships didn't go anywhere. She was committed to becoming a pathologist; too wrapped up in classes and later, work, to maintain a relationship. On the rare occasions she had dates, men usually found her conversational topics off-putting. She didn't intend to talk about work so much, but she really loved what she did and wished somebody would understand. After the disaster with "Jim from IT" she swore off men, throwing herself further into work. Jim was a sign, she decided. There wouldn't be anyone for her, and nothing would change that.

Both of them should have known that anyone acquainted with Sherlock Holmes must expect change.

The pathologist and the British government collaborated in faking the detective's death, and what started as a business relationship turned into friendship, which turned into something more. And then one day Mycroft woke up, counted the number of nights Molly had spent at his flat over the last few months and realised he never wanted her to spend a night anywhere else. Looking into those lovely brown eyes, he saw that the window had finally reopened, and he should move quickly before it closed again.

Molly had awakened that morning wondering if Mycroft was as serious about this as she was, if he understood that she couldn't go back to life without him. When she saw the fire in his blue eyes that morning, she knew it was a sign, and her answer to his next question had to be yes.

Mycroft and Molly belonged together, and nothing would change that.


	26. Getting Married

_A/N: This chapter takes place after "Sign of Three" but prior to "His Last Vow."_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of the hotel room's mirror, adjusting his tie and scowling. Seated on the edge of the bed, Mycroft fiddled with his cufflinks and watched his little brother with an amused expression.

"Something troubling you, dear brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.

Mycroft teased, "Feeling a bit left out? Always the best man, but never the groom?"

"I won't even dignify that with a response," Sherlock snorted.

The elder Holmes frowned. "Sherlock, you and I have had this conversation before, in both specific and abstract terms. I am the heir to the estate and if I do not have a legitimate heir of my own, the family's title and lands revert to the Crown. And while I find most humans, save for yourself, to be as entertaining as goldfish, Molly is –"

"Is what?" He demanded. "A more interesting goldfish? Or perhaps she's reached the level of dog? Sweet and loyal, but by no means an equal!"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You think I'm settling for less than I deserve."

The detective turned around, looked his brother in the eye and rumbled, "No. I think _she_ is."

The government official stood up, crossed the room and stared defiantly into his brother's eyes. "What did you say?"

Sherlock returned the stony glare. "You heard me, brother mine. 'I am the heir.' 'The title must not revert to the Crown.' Those are the words of a man making a business transaction, not a man in love."

"Oh, silly me, I'd forgotten what a romantic you are," Mycroft said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "None of that has ever made a difference to you before, dear brother. Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Because I've seen something you haven't, Mycroft," the detective spat.

"And what, pray tell, is that?"

"I stopped at Molly's room before I came here. She's over the moon about you, going on and on about how in love the two of you are. Such things are always revolting, and it's even more revolting to hear it from her because," he chuckled, "she _really_ thinks you love her! I suspect she has a severe case of denial, or perhaps she's just desperate to be married and have children and doesn't think she can afford to be choosy. Perhaps she doesn't know that you aren't capable of making anyone happy, or perhaps she does but doesn't think she deserves happiness. Regardless of her motives, she certainly can't see that you're far more interested in your title than you are in her. Now, if she too saw marriage as a financial arrangement, I would have no objections, but clearly she's more interested in love than money. When she works out that the marriage is a sham – and she will – it will be the death of her. I don't know why she has such a weakness for sociopaths but -"

"_Enough_, Sherlock!" Mycroft bellowed. Regaining his composure, he continued, "If you don't care to attend this wedding, fine. I can obtain a valid marriage license without you as a witness."

"Thank you for proving my point, brother dear," he hissed, and began to stalk off.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft reached out and grasped Sherlock's elbow. "Come with me."

Mycroft made his way down the hall to Molly's hotel room, dragging along Sherlock, who, in the grand tradition of younger siblings, threatened to tell Mummy. Mycroft scowled at him to be quiet and then knocked on the door.

"Darling?"

Feminine voices yelped on the other side, and then the maid of honour cracked the door and barked, "Mycroft! What are you doing? You can't see Molly, it's bad luck!"

"Yes, but … I was wondering if I might speak with her about an urgent matter? She may stay on the other side of the door if she likes; we needn't see each other."

"Fine," the maid of honour groaned. "But don't you dare peek!"

Mycroft turned to face away from the door and replied, "On my honour, my back is turned."

Fabric rustled as Molly came to the door, which remained open a few centimeters. "What is it, love?"

"Molly," he said thickly. "I know you don't want me to see you before the wedding, but I simply needed to tell you something. Last night I had the most horrible nightmare, in which you had deserted me at the altar. While the thought of humiliation was terrible enough, what kept me up was the idea that," he took a deep breath, "that I might never awaken next to you again. I couldn't bear it; it was one of the most frightening things I have experienced."

"Oh, love," she murmured.

Mycroft swallowed as his brother looked on sceptically. "Molly, if you've any doubts about this, please tell me, and I shall do all that I can to alleviate them. I..."

Silence hung in the air for a long minute. "You don't have to say it," she breathed.

"In an hour I shall be obliged to say it in front of fifty people, so I ought to practice," the government official began. He reached his right hand around the door and found Molly's left hand. Gently entwining their fingers, he continued, "People think me incapable of feeling romantic love, and while I am not one to follow a crowd, until I knew you, a small part of me believed them. I ... am grateful that their suppositions were incorrect."

"I love you too," she whispered.

The maid of honour's voice rang out from the other side of the door. "Oi! That's enough, you two! She's not supposed to ruin her mascara until _after_ the ceremony starts!" With that, the happy couple dropped each other's hands and the door slammed shut.

"Satisfied?"

"Yes. That was disgusting," Sherlock grumbled.

Mycroft smiled at his brother. "Baby brother, one of the things that Molly and I have in common is that we both enjoy putting you in your place."

If Sherlock still had doubts, they evaporated the moment Mycroft lifted Molly's veil and guided her up the steps to the altar. The younger Holmes smiled smugly and reminded himself that later he would congratulate the new Mrs. Holmes for turning his brother into a human being.


	27. On One of Their Birthdays

Mycroft Holmes dragged himself into his townhouse and hung up his coat dejectedly. _(Moriarty on every screen in Britain; an impossibility on a number of different levels, and yet, it occurred.)_ Mycroft had seen the consulting criminal's body himself, seen the shattered occipital bone, read the autopsy report confirming that the bullet had gone through the medulla oblongata, reviewed the half-dozen DNA tests done to confirm the body's identity, and had his best people keep the body under surveillance until cremation occurred. The body they pulled off the roof of Bart's was Moriarty and he was dead, of this the elder Holmes was absolutely certain. Clearly the message they'd seen was not from Moriarty himself.

_(But who would want us to believe that Moriarty is alive?)_ That was the real puzzle here. Sherlock had eliminated every bit of Moriarty's network, from his second-in-command down to his lowest underlings. No stone, not even a pebble had been left unturned. A copycat, then?

As he made his way upstairs, he noticed a light on in the kitchen and went over to investigate. Molly was seated at the counter in pajamas and a robe, typing feverishly on her laptop.

"Mycroft! Thank God you're home! I've been so worried!" She rushed over to hug him and he tiredly returned the embrace.

He kissed the top of her head and said, "You shouldn't have waited for me, darling."

She smiled. "With everything that's going on, I knew you'd have to work late again, and I wanted to be sure I saw you on your birthday."

"That's… very kind of you," Mycroft replied. He studied her face for a moment and then looked at her askance. "That's not the only reason you stayed up, is it?"

"I, er, did have some work to do…" she murmured, suddenly nervous. "We… we ought to get to bed. It's awfully late…"

_(Fine, Molly, we shall do this the hard way.)_ "But I've not seen you all day!" He protested, a sickeningly sweet smile on his face. "Shall we have a glass of wine before we retire?"

She blanched and said, "None for me, thanks, I er… had some earlier."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No, you didn't. You always leave your wine glasses in the sink when you're finished and the sink is clean." He took a seat, gestured for Molly to sit next to him, rubbed the bridge of his nose and said, "Darling, I am exhausted and while I'm almost certain that I know why you waited up for me, I'm also certain that you would prefer to deliver the news rather that have me deduce it. Now do us both a favour and spit it out so that we can go to bed!"

Molly looked down at her lap and took a deep breath. "I'm pregnant. It's earlier than we planned and with Sherlock killing Magnussen and then we thought he'd be exiled but then Moriarty supposedly returned and Sherlock having to come back, it just didn't seem like the right time and just please don't get upset tonight, I can't bear it…"

He gently lifted her face. "Molly, I assure you that I am not upset. In fact, this is likely the only thing you could have said tonight that would lighten my mood."

"Really?"

"Yes. After all, the world needs another Holmes more than ever."


	28. Doing Something Ridiculous

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective the world has ever known, was not supposed to survive a fall from the roof of St. Bart's, endure two years traveling the world dismantling Moriarty's web, and escape a terrorist's bomb only to overdose on cocaine and heroin and die at St. Bart's all over again.

Mycroft sits by the side of Sherlock's bed, staring at the younger man's face. He's read the doctors' notes, seen the EEGs, the MRIs, the CT scans. They all say the same thing: Thirty-five minutes of CPR before return of spontaneous circulation. No cerebral blood flow. Pupils unreactive. Failed apnoea test. Failed gag reflex test. No response to noxious stimuli. Brain dead. "We're so sorry, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft knows what it all means, and so does Molly – she has many faults, but stupidity is not one of them. The Holmes parents couldn't bear it, but Mycroft and Molly continue their vigil over Sherlock. One more night, they tell each other. Just give it one more night. They know it's ridiculous to hope, ridiculous to start believing in a higher power now, ridiculous to think that there's anything left of Sherlock in the shell on the bed. But ridiculous as it is, it's what they owe him.

_(One more miracle, Sherlock. Just for us.)_

* * *

_A/N: Sequel to Chapter 18._


	29. Doing Something Sweet

It wasn't exactly a party, but it wasn't completely solemn, either. Everyone attended – Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, the Watsons, Mike Stamford; with Molly's insistence, Mycroft even deigned to invite a few members of the homeless network (after they showered and received fresh clothes). After a year's time, scar tissue had formed over the wound and they could speak of the absent friend more freely. The memories would always be bittersweet, but tonight, the sweet shone through the bitter.

Stories were told, glasses clinked; they laughed, they cried, they laughed a little more. When they evening finally wound down, the Watsons were the last ones out. As John said his goodbyes to Mycroft, Mary pulled Molly aside.

"Thank you for having everyone over," she whispered, tears welling up. "It's been so hard on John, and I was really dreading today. I'm so grateful for the distraction."

"Mycroft will never admit it, but he needed this just as badly. Thank you both for coming," she murmured, and gave Mary a hug.

After the Watsons departed, Molly went over to Mycroft, seated at the counter and tried not to think of how small he seemed just then. The pair held each other in silence for a few minutes, until the wail of a baby in the next room gave both of them a start.

Mycroft waved Molly off, went into the baby's room and scooped him up just as he had another curly-haired baby. He smiled fondly at the infant and murmured, "Can't tolerate not being the centre of attention, can you, Sherlock?"

* * *

_A/N: I hate myself for writing this._


	30. Doing Something Hot

Molly meandered down the beach, sandals peeking out from under the hem of her sarong. The tropical sun was punishing, preventing anyone from doing anything too strenuous. Even the waves didn't crash against the shore, merely rolling in lazily and rolling back out. Remembering the autopsy she'd done the previous week on a woman with malignant melanoma, Molly was grateful she'd brought hats and enough sunscreen for both of them. _ (Of course I remember things like that on my honeymoon…)_

The fruity drink sweated in her hand as she walked back to the beach umbrella, dodging children building sandcastles and sunbathing teenagers. When she got closer to the umbrella, she paused. _(That looks like our umbrella, but is that really him?)_

Molly stopped dead in her tracks when she reached the umbrella and gave the man in the chaise lounge a once over. Short-sleeve button-up, loafers, and… khaki shorts?

She demanded, "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?"

Mycroft sniffed, "Problem?"

"You're wearing shorts! Are you feeling all right?"

Behind his sunglasses, Mycroft frowned. "Would you prefer to see me develop heatstroke?"

"Of course not," she replied, settling into the adjacent chaise lounge. "It's just… I've never seen you wear short trousers before; I didn't even think you owned a pair."

"There is still quite a lot you don't know about me, dear," he said with a cryptic smile.

"Luckily I've the rest of our lives to find out," she grinned, and leaned over to kiss him.

_A/N: And that's all, folks! 30 days of Mollcroft complete! I can't believe I did it, and I also can't believe you all stuck with me this long! Thank you! Hopefully you didn't develop diabetes, but if you did I'll buy your insulin. :)_


End file.
